


With Your Hands Between Your Thighs

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Not Shy of a Spark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Sexual Frustration, Switch Molly, Switch Sherlock, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retaliation to a comment made by her fiancé Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper puts forth a challenge to the consulting detective in question: neither of them can touch the other for an entire week. The first one to press flesh to flesh loses.</p><p>It soon escalates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cutebutpsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/gifts), [conchepcion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/gifts).



> I'm gifting this fic to Cutebutpsycho (who provided me with the premise for this fic) and conchepcion (who answered with an emphatic 'No' when I wondered, "Is this fic too perverted though?"). Thanks to the pair of you for encouraging me in my debauchery. This fic should have approximately 7 chapters, if all goes to plan, and should be updated pretty regularly.
> 
> If you like the story then please, leave a comment or kudos. That or bookmark. Or don't do any of those things. I ain't here to tell you what to do. I'm just here to write stupid smut.
> 
> Title comes from Arctic Monkeys' song 505, and the lyric _"In my imagination you're waiting lying on your side / With your hands between your thighs."_

"Molly, have I ever told you how wonderful your breasts are?" He's lying in the bed, his head hanging upside down over the edge, and he's got the lopsided grin of a schoolboy on his face. "Especially from this particular angle."

"Sherlock, don't," she chastises, but it's no use. He's still got that 'just been shagged' puppy look of triumph about him. (Morning breath is awful, but Sherlock is Sherlock, she's marrying him in a month and his enthusiasm in the morning makes up for any sort of bad breath.) "Do you know where my bra is?"

"Top of the lamp," Sherlock says, twisting his head and raising an arm to point. "My overenthusiasm did that I'm afraid."

"It would," Molly mutters, pausing to apply her lipstick. She plucks her bra from the bedside lamp. "You're such a teenager sometimes."

"Could've said no," he says, with an obnoxiously large stretch and yawn. She rolls her eyes and makes to shove on her bra, but the feeling of her fiancé's hands grasping around her knees and tugging her forwards causes her to yelp and laugh.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Come back to bed," he murmurs. His thumb draws against the back of her knees in small circles and she has to plant her palms on his chest to remain steady. She glances down at him, and his smile turns wicked as he nuzzles against the inner of her thigh. "There's a position I didn't get to try."

"Down boy," she laughs, stepping out of his grip. She grabs a shirt from the wardrobe, throwing it open, buttoning it up, and is fully intent on running out of the door, but he looks so hopeless that she crouches down in front of him, cupping at his chin. She presses an upside down kiss to his mouth, stroking her fingers down the expanse of his throat. Her gaze flits to his torso, and beyond that. It is awfully tempting. And it only takes her 20 minutes to get to St. Bart's from here—

"Later," she says firmly, a reminder to herself and a promise to him. She looks back to him. "We can try all the positions you want – but that's only if you do the laundry, of course."

His eyes stay fixed on her breasts for an awfully long time. "Fine. Laundry – and then lots of sex."

 _We're having quite a lot of sex_. A set of words that Molly both regrets and triumphs in her genius over, for although Tom is nothing but a distant memory for the pair of them, those words seem to have stuck to the walls of her consulting detective's mind, for ever since they banged their heads together and realised that being together wouldn't actually be such a bad thing after all, Sherlock has been intent on beating Tom's record of four times a week into oblivion.

She doesn't dare tell him that the reason it was so frequent is actually because Tom was more the roger-and-out type of lover (ordinary, average, not really that satisfying), but that probably wouldn't have deterred the consulting detective. Ever since his rediscovery of his libido, he had switched from monk to gigolo practically overnight. The transformation has been "astounding" (according to Mary), "disturbing" (according to John), and "expected" (according to Mycroft). For Molly, she might, and did, describe it as "overdue" and "thoroughly welcome".

Not this morning, though. This morning, she has a job to go to. So she asks if he can see her nipples through her shirt (not unless someone looks at her from an acute 180° degrees, he says, and she just about manages to avoid his still wandering hands), reminds him to do the laundry and kisses him goodbye. Hearing a final goodbye from him, she slams the door to Baker Street behind her.

* * *

If morning sex with Sherlock is a 10, then the rest of the day has been a -100. Not only has she had to deal with pathology interns—all of them, thinking they know everything when they actually don't—while attempting to do numerous autopsies, she's had to fill out reports left unfinished by certain members of staff (one of these days, she will kill Rutherford; the difference in completed workload would be barely noticeable anyway). To top it all off with a nice bow, she's had to try and explain to her superiors that it is, in fact, entirely possible for someone to trip and fall first into a bath and drown as a result of sleepwalking. That particular incident had taken a good half an hour.

So now she trudges up the steps to Baker Street, tired with feet almost burning from how much they ache. She should've worn her sturdier pair of shoes. Opening the door to the flat, she kicks off the offending shoes and tiptoes towards the sofa, wincing with every footstep only to sigh in content when she falls back onto the sofa. Sherlock is sat on the floor, a game of Operation on the floor in front of him. He grunts on seeing her. She decides to take that as "hello".

"Practicing?" she asks, curling her legs up to her chest.

"My brother's clearly been doing so – I might as well," he says, and immediately swears when the buzzer goes off. He always has trouble with the apple. Letting her eyes drift close, she massages at her toes and the balls of her feet, her cheek resting on her knee.

"How long have you been practicing?"

"A few hours."

Her eyes flick back open, and narrow. "Sherlock—"

"Mm."

"Did you do the laundry?"

Another grunt, a nod towards the kitchen and a comment of "Table". Sighing, she stretches out and stands. It's too much to expect that he's actually done the laundry, and that's exactly what she sees.

"Sherlock," she groans, moving towards the laundry basket. "You're supposed to wash and dry the clothes—"

"Which I did."

"And hang them up!" she adds. He shrugs.

"That's not exactly 'doing laundry'."

"That's an umbrella term, you tit," she says, her mouth twitching when she notes, out of the corner of her eye, the way in which his mouth drops open in offence, only to immediately shut again. "It's not just shoving things into a washer and dryer, you know."

"Ah. I suppose the 'all-the-positions' sex is postponed then?" he asks. He may have some (read: many) flaws as both a human and as a life partner, but his tendency to actually read her expressions, hear her voice and listen to her words and deduce her emotions is just one of his few good points. He may not often know how to deal with all of them quite yet, but he's learning. She laughs mirthlessly.

"You'll be lucky." She flicks out a set of pink lacy knickers (shame really, she planned to use those tonight) and folds them, eyeing him. "You'll be lucky to get sex on our honeymoon as well."

"Mm. I find that Sex Holidays are utterly pointless anyway."

Molly arches an eyebrow up at her fiancé and continues to fold the clothes, setting them down on the kitchen table. "What makes you say that?"

"Their purpose."

Her eyebrows knit together. "Their purpose is what makes them pointless?"

"Yes, exactly."

"You might want to explain the logic behind that statement, Sherlock."

He sighs, forgetting the game in front of him. Apparently her lack of knowledge in regards to 'Sex Holidays' is much more important. "Sex Holidays – or honeymoons, whatever you want to call them – were originally designed in a time where courting was entirely controlled. Honeymoons were, from what I can tell, a space where a newlywed couple could be intimate without shame. It was something the couple in question could look forward to. The sex would probably been awful of course, as neither party would've had the sufficient amount of sexual experiences to know how to pleasure themselves, let alone another person. However, in this day and age, most couples – including ourselves – have usually had sex multiple times before they get to the altar – so there's really nothing special about it."

She pauses.

"Nothing special?" she echoes. He glances up, and nods.

"Mm."

Either he doesn't know he's implied that sex as a general concept is nothing special, or he does and is deliberately waiting until she bites and takes the bait.

She's happy to do so.

"Do you want to challenge that?"

"Challenge what?"

"Your theory. About honeymoons being pointless."

"In what way?"

"Well, you said that honeymoons were originally created in a culture where courting was incredibly controlled – what if we, I dunno, aped that?"

He stands, moving towards the kitchen door, hands folded neatly at his front. " _Aped_ it?"

"Yeah. Like, maybe we could have a week where we don't touch each other – at all."

"No touching?" His smile turns predatory, the sort of predatory where an idea—quite often a very wicked one—is beginning to take shape, and he slowly advances forward, circling her. Very soon, she's wedged against the kitchen table and he's looming over her. She nods.

"Yep. Not even a tap on the shoulder."

His palms ghost lovingly over her shoulders. "Not even this?" He speaks with a low whisper, dips his head and steals a brief, sound kiss from her waiting lips, smiling as he does. "Or that?"

She giggles. "Two of the biggest offences."

His arms drop back to his sides. "What are the stakes?"

"Well… if I win, we'll go on the holiday, obviously—"Molly turns her head and eyes the temporarily laundry basket behind her. A grin slides into place. It's a wicked idea, a salacious idea, and one she very much wishes to try. She looks back to her fiancé. "And I'd get to watch you clean this flat. From top – to bottom."

He frowns, but Molly only giggles and leans back, fingering a particularly lacy set of knickers. She bites at her bottom lip. "In whatever garment I provide."

"Will I indeed? Hm." He plucks the knickers from his soon-to-be wife's fingers and runs them through his hands, a smirk touching the edges of his mouth, and she's reminded why she loves him so much. She could never have even hinted at this sort of thing, or played this kind of game, with any other bloke she's been with in the past. They've been so tied to convention and social norms that they'd no doubt regard merely a _hint_ with outright disgust. But Sherlock doesn't obey convention. He doesn't care, he never has. It probably helps that he's one hell of an exhibitionist. Quickly, he flings them over his shoulder, where they very deftly land atop the kitchen sink's tap.

"I accept. But with two conditions: if I win, then there will be _no_ holiday, and no complaining about my housekeeping skills. For at _least_ a month."

She nods towards the laundry basket. "Put all that stuff away where it's supposed to go, and I'll happily accept."


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no real reason for there to be a note with this chapter, really, except to say thank you to everyone who has bookmarked and left kudos and such lovely comments on this story so far. I hope you find this chapter as entertaining as you did the first.

Ever since her friend has been in a relationship with Sherlock, Mary has got used to the entirely strange things Molly comes out with during their weekly coffee catch-up (it used to be twice-weekly, but babies, marriage and life in general has got in the way). There's been the week where Molly chattered happily away over her regular latte with a bag of thumbs wedged in beside her the entire time. There's also been the week where she came walking into the café with smudged make-up and tousled hair.

Mary had, at first, assumed something terrible had gone wrong and was entirely ready to jump up and chase down the attacker and give them a sound pounding, but when Molly shyly admitted, with blooming cheeks, that she had just indulged in a quick session of alleyway sex with Sherlock, Mary had thrown back her head and laughed.

This week however, all is quiet. All is bright. No presence of toes, no flushed cheeks nor tousled hair. Of course, that's up until she hears Molly saying the words, "I – um – I've kind of made a bet with Sherlock."

It takes a single glance and about two minutes of whispering (mostly from Molly) and laughing (mostly from Mary) for the full story to be told.

"That is – mad, frankly," Mary decides, when all is said and done. "Brilliant, but mad. What made you do it?"

Molly considers the question, but only briefly. "I honestly think it was just because I was pissed off. Pissed off with work, mostly. His whole 'oh, Sex Holidays are pointless' stichk annoyed me too."

"Also, you just want to see Sherlock squirm."

Molly splutters in protest, but Mary raises an eyebrow. She knows her friend, and she's seen the pair of them together. (John has yet to scrub the incident of discovering the two of them making out in the lab out of his mind.) Molly shrugs.

"Maybe there's a bit of that as well," Molly says with a lick of a smile on her lips, tucking her hair back and sprinkling sugar into her coffee and Mary knows that Sherlock Holmes hasn't got a chance.

* * *

She's back at the lab, topped up with coffee and a biscuit beside her to nibble on and a saw in her hand when her phone pings.

_I need you. – SH._

The saw falls to the worktop with a decisive clunk. Her eyes light up.

_Giving up so soon? – Mx_

_Very funny. I need your expertise. – SH._

_This still sounds like you're giving up. – Mx._

_On a case, Molly. Goring Hotel, 15 minutes. – SH._

Telling her he needs her, following said declaration with an invitation to a posh hotel? If it wasn't Sherlock Holmes, and she wasn't used to the urgent tone of nearly all of his texts (he makes a request for groceries read like a life-or-death decision), she could've sworn he was indeed giving up. She texts him as such.

 _Goring Hotel, now, Molly._ That's his only, curt, reply. So she, with a roll of her eyes, abandons a brain formerly known as Marie in a bowl, assigns an intern to it and departs.

* * *

On her walking into the hotel suite, which is expansive, luxurious and clean, aside from the dead body sprawled out on the bed, Sherlock glances up. Despite her texts, she seems willing to help him, as always. He quirks an eyebrow at her.

"How old was the victim?" she asks, taking the silent invitation and moving towards the bed. He slides easily out of her way, and steps back.

"Late 40s," Lestrade supplies.

"He was here with someone I assume – a mistress, probably," he says, and Donovan gives him a withering side eye glance before turning away, continuing to rifle through the dead man's draws. "That or a –" (he eyes a discarded necklace box on the floor) "third wife."

"Yeah," Lestrade sighs, "he was here with his wife. She was in the bathroom when the maid discovered him."

"Hm," Sherlock murmurs. "It's easy to mix the two up." Molly has to rock back on her heels, and he knows it's to quell the temptation she often has to kick him hard in the shin, and her arse sticks out a little as a result. He pauses. _Wait._ He glances down.

That – _that_ – certainly isn't supposed to be a thing, not right now. He shakes his head, turns to inspect a nearby lamp flex. "I'm assuming the wife's young?"

"Late 20s."

"Makes sense. He wanted to impress her, so he brought her here."

"Sounds familiar to me," he hears Donovan say, somewhat drily.

"There are strangulation marks around his neck and scratches on and around his wrists, so first guess at cause of death would be asphyxiation." Molly's talking more to herself than anyone else and his cock has seemingly become a soldier, jumping to attention when he unwisely lets his gaze fall back onto her and comes eye to eye with the part of her anatomy that has proved so troublesome. He shakes his head. How on earth does she expect him to get any sort of work done in _these_ conditions? He peers closer at the lamp flex, mentally and rapidly flicking through a history of lamp-making since the 19th century. She continues chattering.

"These cuts on the wrists – they're light and shallow cuts, so would most likely only allow for slight beading in terms of blood loss—"

The history of lamp-making isn't proving as helpful as he thought it would.

"Molly," he says quickly. "A word."

She's the perfect picture of innocence when she looks to him, and he heads quickly from the room, her following in his wake. If this was any other day, he would perhaps be a little proactive in his resolution to this problem, but they're on a bet, so the solution will have to be decidedly verbal.

Shutting the hotel room door behind them, he whirls on her.

"Are you doing that deliberately?"

"Doing what deliberately?"

"The arse thing."

"Seriously?" She bursts out a laugh, her hands flying to her mouth. He glowers.

"This isn't funny."

"Is my – are you – oh my God," she giggles from behind her fingers, locking her brown eyes onto his. "I wondered why you were so interested in that lamp – you know, with a dead body being on the bed."

"That doesn't matter," he says, teeth clenching. "You haven't answered my question."

She shrugs, and it's an irritatingly nonchalant gesture. One might've thought she wasn't taking the bet entirely seriously. "My arse is my arse, Sherlock. I'm not to blame for how you react to it."

He huffs, but the folding of arms over her chest and the arched eyebrow show she's unwilling to relinquish her opinion. "Alright." His voice is tighter than he'd like it to be. Thankfully, his cock is now behaving itself. He steps forward. "New condition to the bet. No distractions when either of us is working."

"Sounds fine to me." She glances at her watch. "I've got to get back to the morgue anyway, so I'll pop off now."

Her eyes flit, briefly, down towards his groin. "I mean, I wouldn't—"

"Don't—"

"Want to make anything harder than it already is. Would I?"

She thinks it's a saucy line to give, and damn it all, but it _is._  Utterly pleased with herself, she gives him one last merry smile and strolls away. Behind him, the door opens and Greg steps out, glancing about the corridor.

"Oh – Molly's gone then?"

Sherlock taps quickly at his phone screen. "She had to get back to the morgue."

"Oh. Um… is everything—" In an attempt to be discreet, Lestrade shuts the door and moves forward, shoving his hands into his pockets, with his head tilted and his mouth turned down in concern. "Okay between you two? You and Molly?"

"Absolutely fine."

"Right." Lestrade's voice lowers. "You just looked a bit – well – _frosty_ , back there in the room."

Sherlock bites back the remark that his genitals would've disagreed. There is a level of professionalism to be maintained.

"It's part of a bet," he bites out.

Lestrade's brow furrows. "A bet?"

"I believe that's what I said, _yes._ You and the rest of Scotland Yard can theorise on what the bet is, it will at least fill an afternoon for you. Now, do you wish to talk more about my relationship with Molly, or do you want to know how the wife tried to poison then strangled your victim?"

Lestrade swallows. "I'll hear about the murder."


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having way too much fun with this. Massive thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favourited and followed thus far. I also updated the tags on this story for later chapters, so you can back out now if such things noted in said tags squick you out at all.

With a glass of wine in front of her and Toby in her lap and Sherlock still out on a case, Molly knows she should be in 'girl's night in' heaven. Instead, she's sighing heavily into her phone. "You won't believe he did today."

"Why? What'd he do?" Mary's calm tone is soon replaced by splutters when Molly tells her.

"Wait, isn't that—?"

"I know," Molly injects, taking a swig of wine. "He's a crafty bugger."

"Mm. How do you think you're going to – you know – get him back?"

Molly purses her lips in thought, drawing her fingers against Toby's fur. He purrs underneath her touch. She tilts her head, smiling.

* * *

**A few hours earlier…**

The body lays stretched out on the morgue table, and Molly, addressing the medium-sized group of pathology students, looks to them, tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as it always does when she's concentrating. "Okay, so seeing as we've completed the main autopsy process, we have to focus on stitching up all incisions made. This, of course, includes the initial Y-incision, which I'll start with now—"

_Ping._

That sound has been happening ever since halfway through the autopsy demonstration, just as Molly had begun to explain the intricacies of advanced liver and lung disease. Since then, it's always been the same sound: quiet, insistent and right on time. She sighs, directing a smile at the group of pathology students gathered around the table.

"Let's hope it's not a patient."

_Ping._

The sound only serves to show her how flat her joke has fallen. She continues stitching. "Obviously, when closing the wound, you have to make sure every stitch is clean and precise – usually for practicality reasons, as well as medical – so you'd better make sure not to drop any."

Another attempt at a joke, met with another bout of stony, unyielding silence. Well, aside from one brief clearing of the throat, which comes from way at the back. She breathes out, eyebrows tilting up. Tough audience.

_Ping._

That sound probably doesn't help matters. It's hard to focus on studying when your teacher is being bombarded with notifications about texts by their insistent fiancé. True, they don't know about the fiancé, but—

_Ping._

Okay, fine. She gives up.

"Class dismissed," she says, a little too loudly to be considered calm. "I hope you learned – something, at least. You can contact me if you've got any questions," she adds lamely to their slowly retreating backs, but none of the pathology students, all of them filing out of the morgue one by one, gives her a second glance. She leaves the whispered swearing until the final student has hurried out, the doors swinging in their wake. Quickly, she snaps off her gloves.

"Mark," she calls. Having been more focused on his game of Tetris than the autopsy, the morgue assistant snaps his head up, squinting behind his glasses at the sudden change in dimensions. Molly waves a little. "I'm going to my office. Put away the body will you?"

Mark hurries to his feet. "Oh, yeah – of course, Dr Hooper. Right away."

Another damn _ping_ catches Mark's attention and has her finally fishing her phone from her pocket. She'll kill him, she'll go medieval on him even; she'll hang, draw and quarter the man.

"Um, who's texting you?"

"My fiancé, most likely – he likes to text…"

_I'm hard for you. – SH._

"Me," she finishes, her planned sentence dying from her lips. Okay… that's somewhat unexpected. She's still annoyed with him though. So she looks to Mark.

"Yeah, just – um – put the body away, then go and have your lunch break or something. There's another – another autopsy later on this afternoon I'll need your help with. Okay?"

Not waiting for a response, she leaves and heads down the corridor, tapping out her reply.

_I'm working. – Mx._

_No you're not, it's 12 o'clock; you're on your lunch break. You never work on your lunch break. – SH._

Damn him, he's right.

_My original point still stands. – SH._

"Literally or figuratively," she wonders aloud, earning a deep, perplexed frown from a passing nurse. Even when he isn't in the damn room, she's earning weird looks simply because of his behaviour. Aiming an apologetic (and too late) smile at the nurse in question, she dives inside her office. If her fiancé really _is_ going to sext her on her lunch break, she'd rather have some privacy.

_I want to be inside you Molly. – SH._

Straight to the point, as always.

_You'd lose the bet. – Mx._

_I'm merely mentioning the aroused state of my genitals and the cause of it, Molly. That doesn't count as actual touching. – SH._

_Anyway, you never said anything in the rules about texts. – SH._

"He says while texting me in my place of work," Molly mutters under her breath.

_Don't you have a case or something? – Mx._

_I did. Solved it this morning. Spent the last few hours in mind palace. Bored now. – SH._

Like he hasn't made that part completely obvious by now.

_I guess I was prominent. – Mx._

_Of course. – SH._

_And I will say, you were incredibly responsive. – SH._

"I'll bet I was," she scoffs, discarding the phone, leaning back in her chair. She could go and get some food instead of do this; sit here and allow her bored fiancé use sexting as some sort of weird distraction. In fact, she will. She'll go to the cafeteria, eat whatever's on offer and leave him to his own sordid thoughts.

 _Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping,_ _**PING!** _

Her hand hesitates against the doorknob. Damn it. Damn it all. She hurries back to her desk. The first message flashes up at her, and she can feel her eyes bulging.

_I believe we started with my tongue on your cunt. It's a little jumbled. – SH._

Her curiosity will be the death of her, one day. She keeps scrolling.

_You tasted beautiful Molly. – SH._

For Pete's sake. First the arse thing, now this.

_You begged. – SH._

_Begged and begged. – SH._

_But I waited. I savoured you. Every inch of your warm body. – SH._

_Traced my palms over your skin… – SH._

_Sank my fingers into your hair… – SH._

_Tugging only just a little, enough for pleasure but not enough for pain… – SH._

_All the while letting my other hand touch at your hot, needy, wet centre. – SH._

_Only until you screamed my name did I give you what you wanted. – SH._

_You know I like it when you say "please", don't you, Molly? – SH._

_The way you tasted paled in comparison to the way you felt wrapped around my cock, Molly. – SH._

She hates him, she's horny, her mind is going places that it really shouldn't when it's at work and she doesn't know whether she wants to kill him, fuck him or do a black widow and do both. That would definitely surprise the wanker. Another chime has her swearing, loudly, at her phone.

_If you're ready to admit defeat, I'm in Baker Street. – SH._

She almost throws her phone at the wall—but just as her arm is over her head, preparing to aim at the cream walls of her office, she stops. She can do far better than damage her own property. Oh, but she can do far, far better than that. Well, she can't do much _now_ , she's at work and what's currently swirling around in her mind probably isn't exactly the sort of plan that would be tolerated here. However, in the privacy of her office, she can do something. Letting her arm drop to her side, she races up, locks the door, drawing the window blinds until she's left in pretty much total darkness. She taps out a message onto her phone.

_Are you wearing particularly tight pants? – Mx._

_Tight enough to be comfortable, if that's what you mean. – SH._

Ah, she thinks. Perfect.

And so, it's in Baker Street, after a few minutes of radio silence from his fiancée, and just as Sherlock is halfway through beginning to believe that her question was simply a rather odd consideration of how he was feeling that his phone chimes with a message.

On his screen, to his initial astonishment, he receives the sight of Molly Hooper's bare, pale, beautiful breasts. It's grainy, taken in a darkly lit room—her office, most likely. Her palm covers one breast, cupping it, her thumb brushing over the dusky pink of her nipple and there's the most knowingly triumphant of smirks on her lips.

A message follows the image.

_Five more days until you can touch these. – Mx._

Then another, one that has Sherlock letting out a high, happy laugh:

_Git. – Mx._


	4. Thursday

"There has to be _something_ ," he hisses, shifting his weight and shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. It isn't possible for the whole criminal underworld to have gone to sleep, just like that. Lestrade's just holding out on him, stubborn bastard.

"It's a slow day," Lestrade protests (lamely), shrugging. "Thursdays always prove slow."

"Well it's not good enough," Sherlock bites out, because that's the truth: it _isn't_ good enough. He needs something to do, something to keep him away from Baker Street and from Molly, who has spent much of the day wandering around the flat utterly naked, water from her shower drawing down (droplets, dripping from her hair) onto her back, easing their way towards the small of her back and god, but he could just reach out and follow the path those droplets tread, with his fingers and his tongue, and oh, how she would shiver and shudder underneath him—

"A burglary, fraud case, even a cat stuck in a tree – just something!" he snaps, and the way the last word reverberates shows him how quiet the main offices of Scotland Yard really are.

"That isn't our division, Sherlock," Lestrade reminds him with a sigh, brushing crumbs from the lapels of his suit. "Just – go home. Read a book. I'll text you if we get anything in, alright?"

The problem with Lestrade is that his face is too honest.

"Fucking hell," Sherlock whispers and with a flap of his coat tails, he storms from New Scotland Yard and into a taxi, the image of an annoyingly and deliciously naked Molly now at the forefront of his mind.

* * *

Usually, when faced with this kind of frustration, he would deal with it by taking Molly into their bedroom and shagging her until they both reached the point of oblivion. On those times however, he doesn't have a sodding bet to lose.

So the traditional avenues it is.

At first, he tries the television, but the empty stupidity of it proves to make him too angry to concentrate on anything but the viciously slow ticking of the clock. He follows that with trying to bolster himself with a few hours of his violin, but he only manages a few bars before he's given up with a huff and a dramatic jump onto his chair.

Molly, a simpering smirk (and mercifully, with a towel now wrapped around her body) wanders past from the kitchen and heads into the bedroom. His legs and feet twitch with the urge to follow, but his mind doesn't let him obey. Sinking himself further against his chair, he delves inside the corridors of his mind palace. He tries to stick to the not-often visited corridors, ones that lead to rooms that hold files and memories of old cases and scraps of information. He's halfway through languidly kissing down dream Molly's stomach, hands linked tightly with hers that he realises with a growl that he's failing.

So now he's stuck, actually forced into following a suggestion from Lestrade: he's sitting in his chair, encyclopaedia in his hands, eyes skipping over the black-and-white print, lingering on the more gruesome of illustrations.

"Sherlock." The call she gives of his name is the sweetest mewl imaginable, a teasing, tantalising sound located somewhere beyond the bedroom door. His jaw locks at the sound. Calmly, he turns another page of his book. A stupid, silly schoolgirl trick. He won't fall for it. His ears prick up, his head tilting a little when he hears her muffled breath of a moan, his name once again on her lips. 

"Oh, Sherlock…"

Against the entirety of his better judgement, he stands up. Abandoning the book, he steps forward. Her mewls and moans merge into one entirely appealing thread of sounds, and his cock twitches a little, his mind's eye filling with images of previous encounters, previous times he had watched her, observed her as she'd writhed on his (now their) bed, her hand working dexterously (eagerly) at her centre.

In truth, he owns a fondness for watching her come apart under her own power, and it's a fondness she's always more than happy to exploit, but now? Oh, but she's doing this entirely for herself.

The way she calls his name now, broken up with increasingly heavy panting whimpers, betrays to him just how desperate (how bored) she is with this charade they've set up. It tells him the truth: she wants to give up, to admit defeat, and she's _eager_ to do it. Her white flag has been waved. He opens the bedroom door with a smirk.

Said smirk soon swipes away when she greets him with a smile.

With Toby curled up beside her (and for the first time, Sherlock is in concurrence with the look of confusion on the creature's face), she is sat in her pyjamas, with her glasses nesting in her hair, cross-legged on the bed, an entirely not arousing study on liver disease lighting up her laptop screen. Her features glow with her grin.

"Gotcha."

He grunts and crosses his arms. "And what precisely makes you think I was convinced by your – display?"

"The fact that you're currently standing in the doorway?" she asks. She puts her laptop to one side and stands (Toby duly meows his disapproval at losing his cushion). Flicking her glasses back onto her nose, she stands in front of the full-length mirror, eyeing her reflection.

"Would it disappoint you if I said that I wasn't convinced?"

"Probably." She glances at him over her shoulder, her fingers drawing underneath her top, stroking thoughtfully across her belly. "What gave me away?"

"Owing to our previous sexual encounters and my knowledge of what stimulates you, I have come to know the tempo, timing and – _veracity_ of your orgasms, Molly." She chuckles, letting her open dressing gown fall to the floor. Coolly, he leans against the doorway. "I can easily tell when you're faking."

She glances up at him through the mirror. A smile slides into place as she, removing her t-shirt and exposing her beautifully pert, perfectly sized breasts to the mirror and him, gracefully leaves herself completely exposed, except for a pair of white silk pyjama pants. (His favourite pair; not exactly practical, but they perfectly accentuate the shape of her arse and that pays dividends.)

"And I suppose you'd like to see a real one?"

She _knows_ he would. Her display was nothing more than – than a first act, designed to hook him in.

Still with her warm brown eyes locked on his, she tilts her head, her tongue darting out over her bottom lip. He instinctively mirrors the action. His eyes are ablaze, he knows it, but he doesn't care. There's a bet on, she's willing him to lose, he's willing for her to give in, but fuck it all – he doesn't care. When she puts on this kind of a show, he's lost. Slowly, she trails her hand down her the pale expanse of her stomach. She exchanges her tongue for teeth, and she slips her hand down past the threshold of the white silk. Her head lolls back, in its way; her chest rises and falls with a quickened grace he's long ago marked as 'never to delete'. She takes a long, quiet breath, running her thumb against the edge of her pants. The length of her throat leads to the base of her neck—the memory of kisses he has dropped and the promise of kisses yet to be placed against that warm spot of skin tingle against his mouth—and she reaches up, tracing a finger around and against her collarbone. Her hand sinks further downwards and her whole body hitches. A tiny, pleasured cry reverberates from her and bloody hell, he's hard all over again.

"Oh," she breathes happily. Pink flushes over her cheeks. "Ooh… Ohh…"

She gasps, her lower back arching and her toes flexing as her other hand flies to her breast, gripping and softly caressing at it. He recognises it as his move, and a primal pride runs through him that she's committed that particular move to memory. He inches forward, away from the doorway and lowers himself onto the bed. Never once does his gaze flinch away from the sight that always makes his head swim and his thoughts, usually like a tightly coiled spring, fade away to an entirely insignificant white noise.

"Yes," the word spills out as a moan. Her hand sinks into her hair, and she's grasping at the soft strands as she bends forward, spreading her legs. Is she using two fingers, three? Magnificent a sight though this is, it's hard to tell from this angle. He much prefers it when she's spread out on the bed, hair fanned out behind, him kneeling between her legs, keenly watching—but that means touching, and that means losing so he will have to wait, for now. "Oh… ohhh, _yes_ …"

His cock is heavy as he continues to watch her, and he knows she's getting close. He's seen it so many times before, but the sound, of her climbing, reaching towards her peak, though familiar to his ears, is one that will never bore him. She groans, guttural in her pleasure, and reaches out, her hand gripping at the mirror and the sight is so delicious that Sherlock knows that once this bet is over, he is definitely going to have duplicate it, with himself as a willing participant of course.

"Yes! Oh Sherlock!" She screams his name, and he can't help but let himself indulge in a dose of smugness. " _Yes!_ Yes, yes, yes, yes!" Her whole body shudders forcefully and she sinks forward, her forehead pressing against the mirror. She continues to touch herself, easing herself through the aftermath of her orgasm. "Oh, just… _oh_ …"

Her words dissolve into moans and then, eventually, silence. With a sigh and a smile, she withdraws her hand from her pants and straightens up.

"Right, if I'm going to meet Meena on time, I need to get my make-up done so—"

"Wait." He holds up a hand, and she halts, her eyebrows tilting upwards in a look of pure innocence. He glowers. If memory serves him well—which it does—then what he's witnessing is utterly wrong. After orgasm, Molly is usually quiet, soft and contented. She mumbles pretty words in his ear. Most of all, she's affectionate. She's tactile. She wraps her arms around him, gasping. A welcoming, soft laugh is on her lips when he guides himself into her for another round, and she presses her mouth to his heated spots of skin, nuzzles against his neck and places kisses against his jaw, her fingers twirling tightly against his dark curls, making sure she knows and he knows that he is hers and she is his. She certainly isn't jumping about, cheerfully planning nights out with her friends. It leads him to a most frightening conclusion.

His shoulders sink.

"Molly, were you,"—his eyebrows knit together—"you were…"

"Faking, yes." She beams, as if unaware of the crushing disappointment she has conjured within him. "In reality, I was _barely_ close. But then, I suppose it's just a simple knowledge of knowing the tempo, timing and veracity of a woman's orgasm, Sherlock. Now, if you please – I really do need to get ready."

With a flick of her hair over her shoulder, she merrily strolls from the room. He remains where he is, his cock flaccid and useless. He remembers her beam of a smile, and the realisation hits him, making him blink. She's not an idiot; she knows exactly what's she doing, what she's been doing. He's been tricked, like a cat that chases after a non-existent piece of string. From the very first (false) muffled call of his name beyond the bedroom door, she has known exactly what effect every little word; every little action has had upon him. He's been royally set up, in other words.

He presses a long finger to his mouth in thought. He smiles.

Quite clearly, it's time for an old friend to make another appearance.


	5. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left comments, kudos and bookmarked this fic thus far. You make writing this fic even more fun than it already is. This is the last regular update, as I'll be taking a day off from this fic. Real life, unfortunately, as it often does, prevails. Normal service will be resumed on Saturday.

She strolls into the lab and promptly drops all the files she's been carrying up until that point. Her eyes widen. Sure, she knew (still knows) her little display yesterday has created something of a stir with her fiancé, but to resort to such a thing as this? Clearly she's done far more than simply 'create a stir'. Casually, he eyes the dropped files.

"I'd offer to help, but you know. Risk of touching."

His snide tone snaps her out of her trance. She scoffs, rolling her eyes. Risk of touching indeed. He'd certainly wanted to touch her last night—she'd seen that look, that greedy look, in his eyes many a time when they were making love, and it wasn't exactly an _impassive_ one. She bends over, gathering up the files and bites back a laugh, swallowing the urge to wiggle her arse slightly (maybe it'll have the same effect as it did on Tuesday).

In her relationship with Sherlock, she's found that he's neither an arse or breast man—both prove entirely devastating to his image of the cold and cerebral genius and leave him a sweating, panting mess calling out her name with desire. Considering he hasn't touched either of those things for nearly a week, it's almost tempting to undo one more button on her shirt or sway her hips that little bit less subtly—if only to witness the reaction.

A swift, light smack to her bum has her giving a yelp and jerking upright. Ponytail flying, she whips around to face her fiancé.

"I'm working, Sherlock."

" _I'm_ not." Smug bastard. Calmly, he adjusts his microscope with the pads of his fingers. The riding crop lies beside it, untouched. "I'm just running an experiment or two. Oh, there's a petri dish to your right. Pass it."

She narrows her eyes, but shoves it along. What exactly is his game?

The answer to that comes when, a few minutes later, she's quickly filling out a report or two, a short distance from her fiancé and feels the leather of the crop, starting at her ankle, draw gradually up against her calf.

That _isn't_ cheating, however much she might wish it to be. After all, she never said he couldn't touch her with the crop. Flesh against flesh, that's the #1 rule. She curses herself for her oversight. Ignoring the warmth pooling within her (thankfully, it hasn't reached her cheeks yet, so she's safe for the time being), she aims a look at him.

" _What?_ " she snaps. Sherlock pouts, brow creasing.

"Pen?" He asks it even though he's got one tucked into his damn jacket pocket. His eyes flit down towards the pen in her hand. "Please." It's a command, not a pleasantry and she's half-tempted to obey by shoving the damn thing up his nose. She doesn't have to touch him to do _that._

With all the grace of a reluctant teenager, she flings the pen in her hand onto the worktop, glowering when he simply smiles and tucks it into his pocket beside his other pen. Her glower falters, and her question about how she's supposed to get any work done when he's around dissolves on her tongue when the crop continues moving up her leg, towards the back of her thigh.

Her thighs, which have always been sensitive spots for her. It's something her previous lovers have always failed to notice, viewing them as nothing more than a gateway to the magical land of her vagina; Sherlock, damn him, did notice.

He hadn't noticed on their first coupling, an adrenaline-fuelled fuck as it was, but on the second time, a much slower, much more passionate declaration, he'd noted with a smile (nothing else, just a smile) the way in which she shivered and writhed and pleasurably hissed when he stroked, caressed and scratched down the length of her thigh. He's always paid special attention to her thighs since then, and today is apparently no exception.

The flush, the warmth, she can feel it, is creeping up her chest and will indeed reach her cheeks, if she's not careful. If she's not careful, she'll turn beetroot red, he'll do that smoulder thing, she'll give in (she's got a handsome fiancé who she hasn't shagged since Monday and dammit that crop feels just as good against her skin as it does when she's the one wielding it) and with a triumphant chuckle that sends a shiver down her spine, he'll bend her over the worktop, hike up her dress and she'll gladly take every inch of his cock and moan his name as he bends over her, his large hands cupping at her breasts, his thumbs flicking playfully over her hardened nipples. She really can't help herself in regards to Sherlock, she knows that, she's lamented (and, at times, celebrated) the fact many a time and to say she hasn't fantasised about shagging her soon-to-be husband in her place of work would be a downright lie.

His stool scrapes back against the linoleum, and the crop stills against her leg. She breathes out a relieved sigh. A playful thwack to her bum surprises her, and she, gasping, bends forward, palms flat against the worktop. He draws the crop away (he's stood close behind her, still not touching her, the bastard), only to rest it against the side of her neck. She arches up against it, instinct taking over from reason. Instinct is a shitty driver, she decides.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulls the crop down, down the length of her back. "Imagine this was me," he comments, almost as if he's musing to himself, but that comment, those words, are all for her benefit. "My fingers, running down the length of your back... playing with your senses like this. I wonder what you'd say."

The musing nature is gone, replaced by a knowing lilt and a low tone that she is so very fond of.

" _Tell_ me what'd you would say, Molly."

"I would – I would…"

"Loud and clear."

Sometimes, being a switch is really damn hard. She keens upward, sucking in a breath. Her palms are sweaty.

"I would beg."

"Beg for what?" The crop returns to her leg, brushing against her inner thigh—his favourite spot. He's peppered it with countless love bites over the years. She lets out a soft whine.

"For you to fuck me," she whispers. She doesn't need to feel her cheeks to know that they're a vivid, cherry red. He shifts, and the crop falls away for a second time and for one heart-stopping moment, she thinks (hopes) that he's going to give up and _touch_ her. At least she can gloat if he does. Gloat over the fact that despite him making her a wet, sopping mess, desire exploding from every inch of her, she's ultimately the winner.

"Right, that's enough for the day. I'll probably stop at New Scotland Yard; see if Lestrade has any new cases." She jerks her head up, twisting it. Her brow folds into a frown and she straightens. Her frown evolves into a glare. A venomous glare that she knows would have anyone else quaking in their shoes. Sherlock has a grin that rivals the Cheshire Cat's. He stops at the door. "And don't forget – we're running out of milk. You might want to pick some up on your way home tonight. Afternoon."

He leaves, his distinct smoulder—the glint in his eyes, the twist of a smile—remaining in her memory. It'll stay in there all day if she doesn't do something about it; and, as she locks the laboratory door with a perfunctory curse and heads to the storage cupboard, also firmly locking that behind her, it hits her that he's meant this.

This entire endeavour, since the start, has been building up to the crescendo of her hurriedly getting herself off in the storage cupboard before the interns come off their lunch break. He probably wasn't even examining anything underneath that bloody microscope.

Bloody, shitting, fucking riding crop.

As soon as this week's over, she decides, his arse is going to be as red as her cheeks.


	6. Saturday

Molly is halfway through washing her hair, letting the warm water fall over her shoulders and her back, down between the valley of her breasts, when she becomes aware that her fiancé is apparently determined to interrupt her usual morning routine.

"Sherlock!" she shrieks, shrinking back as he closes the shower door behind him. "Get _out!_ I'm showering!"

"Oh really?" he replies, tone dry. "I thought you were reading."

He flicks a grin; but that same grin disappears when she glares. So he shrugs.

"Lestrade just called with a case."

"And that calls for interrupting my shower?"

"You were taking too long for me to wait," he says simply, and his statement is so blunt and straightforward that she knows it's ridiculous to try and argue it. However, she muses as she turns around and resumes massaging at the base of her scalp, that doesn't mean a little teasing is off the cards.

For despite all her efforts, she can't get yesterday out of her mind and the feeling of the crop against her thigh and the teasing tone of his words. She longs to properly punish him for it, but there isn't any reason she can't let out her frustrations just a _little_ bit.

"If only we had more time." She draws out a sigh as she speaks, her hands running over her wet hair and she can feel his eyes training on her. "We could do a lot, here, together."

She focuses on scrubbing lightly at her arms. "I mean, shower sex is definitely one of those things people brag about. Apparently it's quite difficult to achieve."

"Apparently?" he parrots. Molly smiles. His tone of voice isn't so dry and sarcastic now. She nods.

"Yeah."

She turns her head, looking at him over her shoulder. "You see, I've never done it before." (He's always prided himself on being the first to do everything.) "I've tried, in the past, but they've never been like you. They've never exactly been as – well."

He rolls his shoulders. His eyes narrow. "As _what?_ "

Looking away, she rubs the back of her neck in thought. "I wonder how you would do it."

"With some finesse, I hope." The proximity, the closeness, of his voice makes her jump, and gasp. He chuckles lowly and she turns to see him tilting his head. "You really want to know?"

She steps back. The cold tile of the bathroom wall pressing against her back makes her breath hitch.

"How I would do it?" Both his hands supplant themselves at either side of her head. His smirk plays at the sides of his mouth, and his eyes dance, falling over her naked, wet form. She swallows a blush, and holds his gaze. There's only one day left. She isn't going to fall at the last hurdle. Her fingers twitch. She _isn't._

He lets one hand fall back to his side and he looks over her. His brow twitches with thought, and she feels like giggling, as if she's a schoolgirl caught smoking behind the bike sheds, with the way he's looking at her.

"I think I'd hold you closer…" he begins, and his hand reaches forward, hovering at the side of her waist. She arches, a hiss of a breath escaping her. His eyes burn into her.

"Touch you…" he murmurs, bringing his hand closer to her skin. He runs his fingers against the air, miming a path across the lower part of her stomach and up, up towards the valley of her breasts. His fingers still and Jesus, he can _touch_ her, right here, right now. Gradually, he leans forward.

"A kiss here…"

There's a hair's breadth between them now. Any sudden movements, even a slightly too heavy breath, would mean the breaking of the bet. He moves his head upwards and she can feel the heat of his breath against her neck. He snaps out his tongue against his lips.

"Another kiss there."

Oh God, she actually has to bite down the squeak that threatens to come. His fingers begin to move again, downwards this time, and she almost squeezes her legs together out of anticipation. Unfortunately, he notices.

An eyebrow rises. "Something wrong?"

His voice is low, almost husky and it sends reverberations through her body. Even if she does have an answer ready (she doesn't), he doesn't allow her to say it. His fingers continue their path downwards as he bends his head. His whisper, she knows, is barely audible to the real world, but he's close enough for her to hear every word.

"Would you like to know what happens next?"

The sound of the shower pounds in her ears and she could focus on that if she wants, tune him out if needs be, she's perfectly at ease to do so, but she nods. He takes in a breath.

"I'd give you what you want."

Just grab the fucker. That's what her mind screams, and it's true. She can switch off the shower, grab him and shag him right there on the bathroom floor. He'll be late for his case or crime scene or whatever it is Greg wants him to examine, but she still can; but she won't. She won't, she won't, she just… _won't._ She can't. Shagging him might (well, it _would_ ) be a mighty reliever to the head-spinning, mind-boggling frustration that's been building up inside her since this bet began, but it would also mean enduring weeks (months) of Sherlock's preening peacock pride. That's a torture under normal circumstances.

His hand hangs over her thigh, unhurriedly easing further forward. Still, despite all of this, he hasn't touched her. Not once. Every movement is precise and clear, cutting into the veneer of impassion she so wants to have.

"You know how skilled a violinist's hands can be, Molly."

She can't tamper down the shudder this time. She arches with the force of it, a breath escaping her. Oh, but she does. He's proved the fact many a time. He tilts his head, looking at her.

"Sorry? What was that?"

She ducks her head. "You're _such_ a little shit, Sherlock."

He barks out a laugh. "I do try my best."

"As do I." She glances up at him. "Now, my turn."

His expression shifts, amused. "Your turn?"

She smiles, twisting her hair carefully around her shoulder as she eyes him with a grin. "Since you treated me so nicely – it's only fair that I should repay you, don't you think?"

His eyes fall on his already half-hard cock, and he clears his throat, shifting his weight, turning as she turns. She purses her lips a little, tapping at her cheek with her finger. Finally, she speaks.

"My… all this teasing and playing with me – I mean, you hide it well, Sherlock, but—" Her mouth lilts into a lethal, knowing smile. "Let's say I know what you want."

Molly steps forward; he steps back.

"Do you now?"

He still wears his smug smile, but it lacks certainty. Good.

She nods. "You want me to lose. You want me to lose control; to become so… overwhelmed that I give in and let you take me any way you can." Deliberately, she draws up her hand, letting her finger draw an invisible line through the air, over the path of his collarbone and his neck. His smile slips. His eyes flash, hungry. Greedy. "You want me, on my knees, with my lips wrapped around your cock, taking everything you give me. Oh, but you want me to take every _inch_ of you. Don't you Sherlock? You want to run your fingers up my back; to wrap them in the curls of my hair as you fuck me from behind, over and over again as I scream and _scream_ for more."

She pauses. "Am I wrong?"

His skin is flushed, his eyes are blown wide, his breathing is heavy and slow and it's somewhat amazing what the mere power of words and the right pitch of voice can do. She allows herself a tiny glance downwards; she lets out a small, lamenting sigh (but try as she might, she can't quite shake her smile).

"A pity we still have that bet going on."

The last thing she does before stepping out of the shower is to switch the shower to its coldest setting.

* * *

She's won. This particular game, she's sure she's won it. Of _course_ she's won.

She remains convinced of that until the bedroom door opens and she gives out a surprised yell, flails, gabbles, rolls over and promptly falls off the side of the bed.

Sherlock coolly leans against the door and, wrapped up in the duvet, with the burn of her almost orgasm rippling through her, she knows that her short-lived triumph is exactly that.

Hesitantly, Molly looks up over the edge of the bed and she knows that she really doesn't need to ask to know he saw her. The abandoned sex toy in the middle of the bed says pretty much everything anyway. He smirks.

"Don't stop on my account."

A thrown pillow connects with his face in reply.


	7. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Hope you've had fun with this fic, and that you like this ending chapter. Thanks to all who have given kudos, left such kind comments and just in general been awesome people.

Behind him, the wall clock ticks. The pace is regular, monotone; insistent.

Two minutes. 120 seconds.

_120, 119, 118, 117..._

"I _did_ want to get some autopsies done today." Leaning against the kitchen worktop, stirring the boiling pasta idly, she crosses her legs and reveals an even more expansive view of her thigh. She sighs, the sound bright and almost cheery, and stretches. He doesn't fail to notice the flash of her knickers (pink, laced) that accompanies the gesture. _114, 113, 112, 111, 110…_

"But of course, Mark hadn't filed the reports I told him to do – so I got stuck with a huge amount of admin instead, again. I think I'll have to get Mike to talk to him, see if he can get Mark to buck his ideas up a bit. I mean, I know we work in a morgue, and the dead aren't exactly the most impatient of people, but to spend all day playing Tetris…"

She pauses, switching off the oven and draining out the pasta. Soon, a plate of something resembling pasta with sauce is placed in front of him. Innocently, she settles down opposite him, her brown eyes wide and focusing on him as she picks non-committedly at her food.

"Do you have that little amount of faith in your own cooking?" he asks lightly, and she glances at him, considering his question. She answers with a shrug and a quick bite of her meal. Her tongue darts out against her lips.

_99, 98, 97, 96, 95…_

She breaks out into a giggle. "Yes. You know I'm a terrible cook, Sherlock."

He risks a taste of the meal in front of him, and can't help but make a face. He has to admit; she's right. Cooking has never been—and probably never will be—Molly's forte. Giving a single nod, he lightly pushes the meal away.

"Not my best experiment." She moves towards the bin, scraping the uneaten food into it. She turns her head to look at him, strands from her messy bun falling out and framing her face.

_90, 89, 88, 87, 86, 85, 84…_

"Maybe I should get Mrs Hudson to teach me." She wanders back to the table, leaning against it, close beside him. "What do you think?"

She's within reaching distance. All he has to do is stretch out an arm and wind it around her waist, pulling her away and onto his lap—

The clock keeps ticking.

_80, 79, 78, 76, 75, 74, 73…_

"A good idea," he answers, swallowing. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson will be glad to help you."

She leans further back against the table, eyebrows knitting together in a question. She still hasn't noticed the clock. _69, 68, 67, 66, 65._ "You're sure?"

"If you ask nicely, yes."

"Hm. I suppose so. You're horrid to her, and she does pretty much everything you ask." As if it's an everyday action, before he can even reply, she shifts back, further and further until she's sitting, cross-legged, on the table, opposite him. She fixes him with a sincere look, but nothing between them is said.

_54, 53, 52, 51, 50._

Her gaze moves away from him, down towards the shirt she currently wears. It's not her favourite; it's a rich, dark maroon, a striking colour that only serves to accentuate her paler skin. He looms over her in usual situations, so it isn't a surprise that his shirts drown her. Unless she rolls them up past her elbows, the sleeves are always far too long. The hem, if she doesn't tie it tightly at her waist, skims the edge of her thighs.

One button, slowly undone. A second, quicker this time.

_30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25…_

A third button crumbles under the gentle pressure of her fingers, and the shirt falls away, slipping down past a shoulder, giving him a glimpse of what he yearns to (and now can) touch. Her hair tickles the base of her neck. She pulls herself a little closer. Her legs part. A smile comes, twitching at the hollow of his cheek. If this week has proven anything about his Molly, the woman he plans to marry, it's that she is utterly wicked. Her hands touch at her, palming at the flesh, moving underneath towards the back of her legs before they draw upwards, coming to rest atop her thighs.

He eyes the clock.

_15, 14, 13, 12, 11…_

A hand returns to the buttons, hovering over the fourth. If she undoes that one, no doubt that the shirt will fall away, leaving only a pair of knickers to contain her modesty.

_10, 9, 8, 7, 5…_

He doesn't care a jot about modesty.

Neither does she.

_4, 3, 2, 1._

It's Sunday. It's 7 o'clock in the evening. A whole week has passed. For seven days, he has not touched this woman. This gorgeous, infuriating woman.

She says his name, and that's enough. Grabbing at her waist, he pulls her forward, gripping her tight and practically hikes her onto his lap.

"Sherl—"

That's as far as she gets. Cupping at the base of her neck, her hair running through and against his fingers, he crushes his mouth to hers for the first time in a week. She sighs into his mouth, pressing herself against his chest, looping her arms around his neck and shoulders, holding him closer, pawing at him until the sensations almost hurt from the relief and contentment that they provide.

He can feel her smile.

"What?"

"You lost the bet," she whispers against his lips, her fingertips running over the line of his jaw. There's a dreamy tone to her words, and he has to laugh. Wordlessly, he points to the clock. Still with her arms around him, she twists her head around. Her mouth folds into a pout. She looks back to him, and her eyes are beseeching.

"Can we still have the honeymoon?"

"I suppose – if you ask nicely, of course."

After a week of not touching (a week he knows he will never want to repeat), her grin widens at this particular statement. She leans closer towards him.

"Oh, I am such a silly old woman!" The groan that comes from Sherlock at the sound of both Mrs Hudson's breathless panic and her footsteps up the stairs cannot be contained. Hugging Molly closer, the pair of them watch as Mrs Hudson flies in through the kitchen doorway, hands flapping and muttering under her breath.

"Should've remembered – so very silly of me, I should've written it down somewhere!"

"For God's sake," Sherlock hisses, but Molly shushes him, always the politer of them both—even when she's half undressed.

"Is something wrong, Mrs Hudson?"

"No, nothing wrong dear – just annoyed, that's all—" Mrs Hudson says, still breathless from the exertion of her (no doubt needless) panic, and reaches up to grab at the wall clock. She tuts. "Oh, I can't believe I forgot!"

Sherlock shifts in his seat. Molly's breasts, just peeking out from underneath his shirt, are tantalisingly close and why in the hell won't Mrs Hudson leave? " _What_ did you forget?"

"Surely you know! Daylight Savings!"

The silence that comes with her statement makes her look up.

"Sherlock, please tell me you've heard of Daylight Savings before! Today's the day the clocks go back!" She continues over the sound of Molly's immediate burst into hysterics. "I heard the man on the radio talk about it – a whole hour I could've had, all to myself today, it's so irritating – wait, Sherlock, you look a little disappointed, dear."

Molly, smug, laughter still bubbling up from her throat, grins. "Oh, he's not disappointed Mrs Hudson. He's just remembered he's got some housework to do – that's all."

* * *

The rarely-heard sound of the vacuum cleaner fills 221b Baker Street. Toby, purring, curls up on the top of the chair behind her, tail swishing and Molly takes a very deep swig of her triumphant cup of tea, her legs tucked nice and tight underneath her.

Sherlock, his features dark with a deep glower, pushes the vacuum across the floor.

"You might've said how tight these would actually _be_ , Molly."

"I don't know what you're complaining about, Sherlock," she remarks, snuggling down into her fiancé's chair. She continues, gleefully, to absorb the sight before her. "I've got a perfect view."

She takes another sip, bringing out her phone. Sherlock glares at her.

"Molly, don't you dare—"

She dares. The camera flashes; his glare deepens. Molly shrugs.

"Just taking a picture for posterity." After all, it's not every day she gets to watch Sherlock Holmes, great consulting detective, clean Baker Street in nothing but a pair of bright red Speedos.

* * *

It's worth all the banging and crashing she hears almost constantly now. It's even worth the passionate yells and heated calls of their names that she has to use earplugs to block out. It's been worth the disturbances to her weekly bridge meetings and the odd looks she receives from potential tenants when they come in to see that newly refurbished basement flat.

Yes, some might term her trick with the whole Daylight Savings a little bit cruel (no doubt Sherlock will term her a traitor or some such thing when he finds out, but he is often a little dramatic that way, just like his brother), but, Mrs Hudson muses, chopping up apples for her apple crumble—she does love a bit of pudding—it did work perfectly.

And it is worth it; because, for once, in all the time that Sherlock Holmes has lived at 221b Baker Street, she _isn't_ being the bloody housekeeper.


End file.
